


Bird on the Throne

by VeryImportantDemon



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Clint, BAMF Loki, Clint gets hurt, Loki is better than he looks, Loki is the king, Loki takes care of him, M/M, Thor doesn't know he's alive, deaf!Clint, hurt!Clint, slow build relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 20:35:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3542966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeryImportantDemon/pseuds/VeryImportantDemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Curiosity, Loki Laufeyson told himself. He was just curious about the fate of the two strange figures he'd spied at Budapest. It was only curiosity that sent him on a mission to recover his ha- Barton. It was just curiosity - not attraction to the archer, that was sure. Curiousity. <br/>Clint Barton didn't have much of a choice. He thought he'd been in heaven. And then he'd seen Loki.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In The Interest of Curiosity (And Also of Boredom)

**Author's Note:**

> This is another fic from ff.net with my beautiful wonderful gorgeous partner, Lacewing. She's the best.   
> Enjoy :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Loki looks in and he observes and takes action (which was regarded as a bad idea in some circles)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This is a multi-chapter-of-undetermined-length eventual Frosthawk fanfiction based off of a roleplay with me and my partner on another site, Lacewing. The lovely Lacewing takes Loki, with limited editing from me. She's given me permission to do this, so no need to report me. Thank you, and enjoy!

The position of King was a trying one.

Loki Laufeyson knew this already.  _Had_  known it ever since he was a lad. Unlike Thor, who viewed everything through Thor-colored goggles, Loki had been acutely aware of the changes that gradually took place during his growing up and the continued reign of Odin-king.

His father—and mother, to a point, though she had always been beautiful in Loki's eyes—seemed to age more quickly than his fellow Asgardians. Crows' feet, a dark circle beneath his visible eye, and hair that had been red when Loki was a boy, only to be stark gray when he had reached maturity, and a hunch that grew more pronounced over the passing of time, as if the weight of all the Nine Realms rested upon his shoulders (which it did). The hard planes of his face had grown harder, as if his expression were being carved from the face of a mountain, and the pleasant tone of his voice turned sour, harsh, like the sharp bark of a wolf.

All these things had cemented the fact in Loki's mind that ruling over nine kingdoms was  _difficult_ (Midgard only stopped counting at a later date, when Odin decided to leave the realm to its own devices, for the most part). And as a boy, he had been grateful that the mantle would pass to Thor, because Loki was not eager to have gray hairs, thank you (even if he knew that his brother would foist most of the difficult tasks onto Loki so the crown prince could go play war). But he still wanted to, at least, be  _considered_  for the position, for it was the principle of the thing! He just wanted  _someone_ to be comforted in the knowledge that, should Thor be unable to rule, Loki could do it just as well. ( _'Better'_ , he corrected himself.) But even his dear mother had grown blind-sided to Thor's arrogance in the face of his golden achievements, though he never blamed her for it.

And then of course, Thor's coronation had happened, and Loki had snapped, jumped off a bridge, and had been persuaded to take over a realm. Then got imprisoned, stabbed through the chest (he unconsciously rubbed the area above his armor, grimacing. That hadn't felt particularly  _pleasant_ ), and crowned king.  
Well. There had been a bit more to it than that. But Loki wasn't one to reminisce when he had better, very important things to do.

Like sitting boredly on Hlidskjalf, Odin's—now Loki's—throne, in the dead of night with his eyes cast to Midgard. This was a frequent occurrence, for Loki was efficient enough to complete his kingly duties during the daylight and evening hours, and his insomnia gave him even more time to do what he would. So, he sat upon the throne - which  _was_  rather uncomfortable, unless one slouched like he did - and typically just allowed his gaze to wander aimlessly, watching the mortals go about their mayfly lives. (Although, and he would only admit this within the privacy of his mind, he often watched Thor and his mortal comrades. In another universe, another lifetime, he would have enjoyed being on more friendly terms with them.)

But tonight, something drew his gaze to Hungary, and after a brief moment of trying to look elsewhere - and failing - he narrowed his vision further to the country, particularly to the city of Budapest.

Loki ran a finger over his mouth absently, scanning the large city with a keen gaze. It was nighttime, and the bright lights of the capital's buildings contrasted with the dark alleyways and the dimmer edges of the city. In spite of the late hour, many mortals bustled about their business, though they were fewer in number, and kept to the more brightly-lit areas. He felt his eyes and his ears drawn to a more decrepit part of the city, and caught a flicker of two silhouettes at the back door of a large building. One was fiddling with the handle of the door—picking the lock, perhaps?—and the other half-leaned, half-sat against the wall beside his or her comrade, the figure's posture positively screaming with agony. The figure was quite clearly injured, even if he could not see the cause in the darkness. Loki looked closer, and caught a small flash of red hair before the door opened and the pair hurried inside, one figure dragging/carrying the injured one.

Loki felt a flash of recognition, but firmly brushed it away.  _Of course it isn't_ _them_ _. It couldn't be. Could it...?_  Loki recalled Barton speaking about a mission in Budapest while under the control of the scepter, and that it was one of his and Romanova's more... memorable times together.

 _It is a coincidence. It has to be._  But one of them had been hurt. And not the one with the red hair.  _If Barton is harmed... But why should I care? The mortals are of no concern to me._  But try as he might to lie to himself, Loki couldn't deny that he was both slightly concerned and  _insanely_ curious. Curious enough that the feeling positively ate at him, and he was memorizing the precise location of the building and standing from the throne before he could stop himself.

_Just a peek. I'm only going to confirm that it isn't Barton and Romanova in that building, and that will be that. Simple curiosity is the only reason..._

So focused on convincing himself was he, that Loki found himself at the Bifrost Observatory without any recollection of having traveled there in the first place, by foot or by magic. Heimdall appraised him with barely-concealed contempt from outside the large dome, and Loki strode forward with purpose in his steps. "Direct the Bifrost to the city of Budapest, Gatekeeper," he ordered, his armor melting away into more appropriate Midgardian formalwear (of which he was especially fond, not that he would  _ever_  admit to such a thing out loud), Gungnir obligingly transforming into an elaborate cane.

"You shall not make it in time." Heimdall did not appear too concerned with the admission. Loki felt a brief leap in his chest, his wound flaring almost sympathetically.  _So it_ is _Barton and Romanova..._  This only cemented his resolve. "We'll see," he replied silkily. "Do not make me repeat my order."  _You will see, Gatekeeper. I will arrive in time._

Heimdall regarded him for a long moment ( _too long!_  he thought with a growl) before turning around and proceeding to follow Loki's command. His every step seemed to echo with grudging obedience and petulance. Heimdall never did like Loki, for some reason, king or not.

_Whatever. I do not care. Hurry up!_

It seemed to take an eternity for the Bifrost to start up, and when it finally pointed towards Midgard Loki was practically on the edge of the precipice with impatience. Finally,  _finally_ , it pulled him into the vortex, and he found himself standing on Midgardian soil. Emphasis on  _soil_ , for he had been placed at the very far edge of the city of Budapest on the side of a road, hardly inside its borders.

_Wonderful. Fantastic. I hate you, Heimdall. So very much._

Loki saw the glowing city of Budapest and grit his teeth. He did not have  _time_  for any of this nonsense! Bemoaning the humiliation that was sure to follow, even though only Heimdall could see him, Loki stepped out into the center of the road without care, and stood waiting until a mortal vehicle, a motorcycle his mind supplied, came to a stop in front of him. The driver cursed at him from his seat, but his Hungarian litany was stopped short as Loki pulled a handful of solid gold from his tailored coat, (in reality, he'd grabbed it from the pocket-dimension he made frequent use of) and pushed it into the man's hands, for it wouldn't do for the King of Asgard to be stealing from mortals, now would it?

"I am commandeering this vehicle, thank you. You may go purchase another with that. Or whatever." And with a small push the man stumbled off the bike and watched in shock as Loki did, indeed, perch atop the bike and stare at the many buttons and levers.  _How does this even function? Oh, whatever! I do not have time for this!_  He directed a small tendril of magic into the system, the invisible strand of flowing from his index finger. and felt around with it until the bike roared back to life and took off towards the city with Loki aboard.

_If this is all a joke, I am going to make something explode. Violently. With much shrapnel involved._

After such a rough start, and a few minutes of darting through traffic (during which he paid no heed to road rules), it seemed his luck had turned around when the building he'd spied through the throne appeared shortly in his view. He stepped off the bike and with his absence the engine abruptly ceased and the bike fell to a halt behind him on the pavement, halfway on the sidewalk. Loki didn't care for the vehicle's fate. Maybe some enterprising mortal would find it and pawn it off somewhere. He did not care, his h -  _Barton -_  was  _injured_. Possibly. And Loki had wasted enough time already.

He darted into the alley he'd seen Romanova and Barton duck down, and went to the back. The door was ever so slightly ajar, and Loki entered quietly, only to see an emergency staircase unfolding above him. Huffing impatiently through his nose, he took the stairs three at a time, stopping at each door he came upon to see if it had been unlocked and opened. Finally, he came upon the door designated as number fourteen, and found it shut but not locked. He entered and stopped as the very dim ambient light coming from the windows illuminated a dark blotch on the floor. It smelled faintly of iron to Loki's senses, and it spurred his steps forward.

_Blood._

_Follow the blood, follow the blood... Barton, you are incredibly unfortunate, did you know that?_ He darted silently between the dark desk cubicles, looking inside and beneath each one he came upon.

_Where are they?_

_Where are they?_


	2. Clint Barton and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clinton Francis Barton does some stupid shit (and no one is surprised)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, haha.  
> Enjoy :)

Agent Clint Barton had, in fact, been having a rather good day.

Clint liked his job. Really, he did. Being an agent was his life now. It was sure a whole lot better than the life he'd had before that fateful day when he'd been approached by a man calling himself Agent Coulson of the Strategic Homeland Intervention Espionage and Logistics Division. He hadn't liked that life. He liked his new one. But there were some days when he swore in a handful of different languages that he really, really wished that he'd picked a different job on Career Day. He figured to his distress on those days that he couldn't exactly pick a different job now. He was in too deep. He got over those feelings when he woke up the next morning with Betsie, his bow, safely beside him. He realized, the days after those fateful ones when he almost begged to be given another choice, to be given another chance, that he'd never have it any other way. He loved his life and he loved his job, and the world's best marksman, agent Clint Barton of SHIELD, would have it absolutely no other way.

There were the normal days when Clint didn't have any earth-shattering realizations. There were the days that were, in his eyes, normal. Normal missions, normal target practice, normal take-down-the-baddies, normal mess-hall-plastic-macaroni lunches, normal undercover missions, normal games of torture-the-juniors. That day, the day when everything that could go wrong pretty much did which happened a bit too much for comfort, started out as one of Clint Barton's normal days. Of course, he'd been undercover. Clint didn't mind undercover work. He was good at it, and he liked the things he was good at, no matter that he preferred to be himself, going in and kicking ass. He had his best friend - possibly his only friend - Tasha at his side. They were taking down a terrorist ring together. Terrorists were one of Clint's favorite things to shoot down. They made the top of his list along with traitors, apples-off-of-the-junior-agents'-heads, and Chitauri warriors. And, to top off what was turning out to be probably one of Clint's favourite missions, Hawkeye and Black Widow were headed to Budapest. Which was, like, his  _fourth_  favourite city of all time, ever.

Clint grinned into the dark abyss that awaited him and his partner. With a tug, he pulled the last strap that secured his parachute. The leather straps neatly hugged his shoulders, the actual chute hugging his back. Underneath it, he was wearing something that rather suited his frame. The suit made him look even more attractive, if he did say so himself (which he did mention to Natasha Romanov). It also was his favourite colour. The dark purple fabric clung to him neatly. The pants ended just below his ankle, the crisp white button-up tucked in. A matching tie joined the ensemble around his neck. He tugged the right sleeve of his suit jacket, grinning at Natasha. He had to shout over the roaring sound of the wind to speak. They were, after all, a few miles above the ground. A few miles above Budapest, Hungary. Hungary was totally his third favourite country. "Hey! Looking good, Tasha!" His partner-in-crime was dressed typically to her - a short, red, very flattering dress. It ended just above her knee, sleeveless, and had a rather low-cut neckline. Perfect for their line of work - at least, today. Natasha laughed loudly, securing her own parachute. "You're so gay, Barton!" she shouted back. Clint replied with a loud laugh of his own. He stuck one hand behind his head, the other on his hip, and bent one of his knees in an absolutely ridiculous pose. "I  _am_  gay, why shouldn't I act like it!" Natasha simply smirked this time, in addition to her laugh. Clint loved making his best friend laugh. He loved making her happy. It was Phil Coulson that intervened their friendly argument.

The senior agent was in the cockpit of the small aircraft he'd flown out here for the pair. It wasn't just any aircraft, after all. It was Clint and Natasha's. Whenever the dynamic duo had to be flown anywhere for a mission, they always took the same plane. And when one of them wasn't flying it, Phil Coulson often was. He grinned at the windshield. Keeping it steady, he turned his head to look at the pair. "Alright!" he shouted. "We're almost at Budapest. You know the plan?" They both nodded, and Natasha shouted her answer back at the man who had become like a father-figure to the pair of agents.  _"Da!"_  Coulson nodded. "Then get going!" he shouted back. "We're just about to fly over Budapest! I'll drop you right on the outskirts! Remember! Signal back every 24 hours, a distress signal if you need evac!" Clint shouted back in Russian, grabbing the pull cord on his chute and gripping it in his right hand. _"Я получил его, Фил!"_  Phil grabbed a handle on the plane's console, still studying the backs of his two best agents. "Have a good flight! I'll see you!" Clint grinned, securing the strap of his parachute one last time just to make sure he wouldn't end up one purple splat of world's best marksman on the dirty ground far below.

Coulson's voice reached his ears again, over the snapping  _woosh_ es of the helicopter's rotors. "And Barton!" Clint twisted his head around, his spiky hair getting ruffled in the wind. " _Da_?" he shouted back, by way of acknowledgement. "The three of us have reservations at that pizza place in Italy next week! Don't be late!" Clint smirked, the right corner of his lips tilting upward in an expression that was specific to the archer. "I'll keep him on track, Coulson! Don't worry!" Natasha shouted, joining in the hurried conversation as the flying contraption motored its way across the sky towards the city of Budapest. "It'll be fine!" Of course, they thought it would. Why would it not? This was a routine mission overseas. Get in, get the target whether it be a. acquiring a weapon or b. taking someone out (Clint particularly enjoyed option b.), get out. Simple. And Clint had no doubt in his mind that this mission would be like the others. Seeing as it was taking out terrorists and in his fourth favourite city of all time (even though his beloved Betsie wasn't at his side), Clint dared to think he might enjoy this one a little more than the rest. Clint wasn't a psychic. He was more of a skeptic in matter such as that. So he couldn't know that he was going to be proven very,  _very_  wrong.

He locked his fingers around the pullcord of the chute, and without much more thought to his possible fate, launched himself out of his helicopter. Clint always loved doing this, jumping out of planes. It felt like what Clint had imagined flying with wings would. It was a childlike dream, to have wings, but in the farthest reaches of his heart, Clint clung to that childish dream. He was Hawkeye. He was the hawk. And skydiving was as close as he could come to flying like the bird he was. Being a human, with his own very obvious flight restrictions, he felt like a hawk with its wings clipped. Skydiving gave him that wonderful feeling back. The archer's velocity increased as he sped towards the ground. Arms and legs spread out, he laughed, the wind ripping the joyous sound out of him. The freefalls were always his favourite part. He adored that adrenaline boost that came with flight like this. The wind sped past him, pounding at every inch of his body it could reach. He couldn't have been happier than he was right now. The view of the Hungarian city was gorgeous from that height as he fell. He felt as if his senses were heightened as he soared - fell. After all, flying was nothing more than fancy falling, and Clint Barton was a master of that art.

The jump, of course, had gone beautifully - without a hitch. He and his best friend had landed, disposed of the chutes, and moved towards Budapest. By the time the finally crossed the actual city limits - Coulson could only get them so close - the dates had switched. He glanced up at the moon and laughed softly. "It's about 1:00," he said. Natasha replied with a laugh of her own. "You think you're so special with your 'I can tell the time by the sun and the moon', don't you, Barton?" Clint smirked. "Of  _course_  I do, Tasha," he said matter-of-factly, using the nickname very few people were permitted to use. The last time a junior had slipped up, well, let's just say they hadn't been seen for a few days. He punched her shoulder, and she punched back. That had been 3 days ago.

Clint Barton was, in fact, having a rather bad day.

Clint Barton liked his job. Really, he did. Being an agent was his life now. It was sure a whole lot better than the life he'd had before that fateful day when he'd been approached by a man calling himself Agent Coulson of the Strategic Homeland Intervention Espionage and Logistics Division. He hadn't liked that life. He liked his new one. But there were some days when he swore in a handful of different languages that he really, really wished that he'd picked a different job on Career Day. While his loyalty to the agency never wavered in the slightest, he still almost sarcastically wished he could be given another chance. That day, the day when everything that could go wrong pretty much did which happened a bit too much for comfort, happened to be one of Clint's bad days.

They'd done the deed: one of the only comforts on the mother of all of the world's best marksman's bad days. They taken out the terrorists. But, funnily enough, the terrorists  _did not_ want to die. Clint had almost been yearning for that fact, for that aspect of the mission, until, of course, they fought back. With a small sniper rifle that Clint had been lent by a contact in Budapest, he'd taken out five of them. It was then that Natalia Romanova launched herself out of the shadows of her brilliant cover to take out two more. Unfortunately, very, very unfortunately, that hadn't been the end of it. their comrades had been extremely upset - unbelievably - at the murder of their fellows, and they decided to retaliate. Even more unfortunately it seemed, they were very well trained, too. Martial artists. Very skilled, at that.

 _Aw, shit,_  Clint was able to think before one of them crashed up into his sniper's nest in the rafters. He'd heard them coming, of course, but where was there to go? Nowhere. So he decided that he'd take him out as well. He flung the rifle with all his might and deadly precision at the accomplice, it having run out of bullets. Low-tech, it could only carry five bullets, and he'd used them on his targets. It connected with the man's chest with a grunt, and he stumbled backwards with a grunt, the breath whooshing out of his mouth. Clint scrambled to his feet. He realized with a sudden slam in his chest that  _holy hell I just gave him my weapon._  "Aw, f-" Another accomplice dashed towards the archer. He steadied himself on the beam. Natasha was below him a few stories of the large ballroom taking out her own men. He swung a punch as the man lurched towards him. The other, behind him balancing neatly on the beams, had tossed his the rifle down the few stories to the floor below. " _Kapd el!_ " the first well-trained-thug shouted in Hungarian. Clint had a brief thought that maybe he should have learned Hungarian - he only knew a handful of words - but that thought was pushed from his mind as the fight continued.

Looking back on it, Clint thought that he should have paid more attention. He didn't, in light of the aftermath, remember much of the battle itself. It was fast and furious, punches from both sides landing. Clint had, at one point, grabbed the edge of the beam and with the force of his own power, swung himself around and landing even, feet first, back on it and forcing the second one of them to fall to the ground floor below. The first one had a knife. Clint figured that he should have seen that coming, too. When he popped back up from his epic flip, it tore through the air, ripping a wide gash across his chest. Bright scarlet blood poured out of his wound but Clint didn't even have time to think his favourite swears. The fight was too important. Quickly calculating the risks, he threw himself forward anyway, into the path of the knife. With a thrust of the blade, it drove into the open wound, but Clint accomplished what he'd set to do. Even muscled as the first armed thug was, an agent's flying tackle often set a few people reeling. The thug wasn't an exception from the rule. The pair of them both tumbled downward.

_"Clint!"_

Natasha's voice echoed in his ears as he fell. The archer spun in the fall, the air not supporting him like it would to a bird. Like it should have done to him. For some reason, Clint thought about birds. The fall only lasted a few seconds, but Clint thought. There is a difference, he thought, his mind spinning with his body try as he might to steady himself, between falling and flying. With falling, there is a more permanent destination.

The tangle of fighting bodies crashed to the ground with what seemed to his trained ears to loud a thud. Everything exploded into colours and then grays and then nothing.

Clint woke up to hearing his name spoken frantically by his best friend. "Clint! Clint! Clint Francis Barton! Clint!" He didn't even open his eyes before the scream rippled through his body. With it, blood sprayed from his lips, staining his chin and dribbling in a tiny stream from the side of his mouth. He dimly figured he must have internal damage. The agony started at his chest.  _Ribs,_  he thought. His ribs must be broken. The knife was still lodged in his chest and he gasped again. Air. Air. He could barely breathe, he was struggling for breath. Punctured lung. He probably had a punctured lung, caused by a fractured rib. He couldn't think. He couldn't waste his energy on self-diagnosis. He gasped again, convulsing once like a shock victim. "Clint." Natasha's voice splintered. She never sounded like that. She was strong. She was Russian. She was Natasha Romanov. She didn't cry. Had he not been writhing in agony, he would have noticed tear tracks down her pale cheeks.

He almost, taut with pain and sticky red blood coating his chest, opened his eyes, but Natasha stopped him by gently touching his eyelids. Her fingers were trembling slightly. He sucked in a breath, a cough spewing more blood from his lips. "Clint," Natasha said. Her voice was sturdier than her fingers, studier than it had been moments ago. "Don't move," she instructed. "I've got to put something around that. There's so much blood... I can't risk taking the knife out. Don't move." Clint coughed again, screwing his face up with pain. "No pr...prob... problem," he began barely forcing the words out of his mouth. "C-can't," he whispered, his voice faint. "M...move... l-legs." He hadn't wanted to admit it to Natasha or to himself, but he couldn't. Everything below his waist was completely numb. It was as if there wasn't anything there.

Natasha swallowed. "Clint," she said, softer and gentler than she often was. "Clint, I'm so sorry. I'm going to try and bandage you. It'll hurt. I've got to press on it." Spots of colour danced over Clint's closed eyes and he slipped under again.

Clint danced in and out of consciousness. He heard Natasha's voice weaving in and out of his broken mind.  _"Clint. Clint. It'll be alright Clint."_

_"I called medevac."_

_"Phil's coming, Clint."_

_"It'll be alright, Clint."_

_"Clint."_

For some reason, drifting in and out of consciousness as Natasha pulled his broken body somewhere, he figured since the sounds of his surroundings changed every time he slipped back into the light, he heard music. He figured it was in his head, but it wasn't his voice. It was a voice that belonged to a man that he hadn't seen in what seemed like years. The accent on the voice was almost British, he'd say.

 _"Blackbird singing in the dead of night._  
Take these broken wings and learn to fly.  
All your life.  
You were only waiting for this moment to arise."

Loki Laufeyson was singing in his mind.

 _"Blackbird singing in the dead of night._  
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see.  
All your life.  
You were only waiting for this moment to be free."

The voice was quiet and soft in his mind. It felt like Loki was whispering the song right next, tenderly, almost intimately if you could believe that.

_"Blackbird fly, blackbird fly.  
Into the light of the dark black night."_

As the song carried on, he could see Loki in his mind's eye.

_"Blackbird fly, blackbird fly.  
Into the light of the dark black night."_

He was wearing what seemed to be his Asgardian formal wear, what Clint had seen him in the last time they'd met, complete with helmet.

_"Blackbird singing in the dead of night."_

Clint was there beside him in his Hawkeye uniform. Loki reached an arm out and took Clint, dancing a waltz with him. And Clint was pressed against him. Loki's smile was soft, kind, and gentle. Everything that he knew Loki shouldn't be. His lips moved softly, the song slipping from his mouth, beautiful and soft.

_"Take these broken wings and learn to fly.  
All your life."_

Slowly, the pair moved together, the Asgardian holding the archer close to him. Sweetly, Loki finished the song, his forehead pressed gently to Clint's as they moved in a very slow dance.

 _"You were only waiting for this moment to arise._  
You were only waiting for this moment to arise.  
You were only waiting for this moment to arise."

When the song was over, the image faded. Clint was jerked back to reality as he felt a pull on his wound. The agony rippled through him again, and he knew the knife was still in his chest. He coughed, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. He sucked in, trying to pull in a breath. "I'm sorry, Clint," Natasha whispered. He heard her voice close to his ear. "We're in an office building. We're waiting for medevac. They'll be here soon, Clint. You'll be alright. You'll be alright, мой друг." Clint could tell, even with his eyes closed, that Natasha didn't believe it. Clint didn't. He had this sneaking suspicion that maybe that had been his last mission. Maybe that would be the one that took him out. Maybe he was going to die.

Clint winced, whimpering softly. "It'll be alright, Clint," Natasha whispered again, gently touching his cheek. There was a noise like footsteps and suddenly Natasha's hand jerked back from his face and she spun around. He heard a sharp intake of breath from his friend. Finally, his eyes fluttered open, even the light of the darkened building assaulting them. What -  _who_  - greeted him was a scene from a dream. A dream he'd had very recently.

The hawk's voice cracked and blood trickled from his mouth as he did so. "L...Loki." _  
_

**Translations:**

**(Note, these translations are provided via Google Translate, so I apologize for any inaccuracies.)**

**Da (Russian) - Yes**

**Я получил его, Фил! (Russian) - I got it, Phil!**

**Kapd el! (Hungarian) - Get him!**

**мой друг (Russian) - my friend**


	3. In Ponderment of Valhalla

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Natasha Romanoff speaks Russian and Loki Laufeyson makes some decisions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter.  
> Enjoy :)

The seconds ticked by in a steady rhythm as Loki wove in and out of the rows, trailing the blood-tinged path as it meandered through the cubicles. The air was still, almost like a tomb, and he shook away the imagery the comparison invited. This office complex would not become Barton's grave, he swore it.  
Loki's steps halted as he sensed a small shuffle near the back, a whisper of breath, and his lips curled upwards.  _Found you._

Moving towards the origin of the noise, he stepped into a dark cubicle block and was met by a sharp intake of breath. There, to his right beneath the shadowed desk, Romanova and Barton were crouched against the wall and staring out from the darkness with undisguised shock. Well, Romanova was crouching. Barton was laying limp."L...Loki." Crimson leaked from the archer's lips, matching the dark red of Romanova's hair.

"Hello, Barton." Loki greeted. His green eyes glimmered in the dim light. Privately, the trickster was incredibly smug.  _Did I not say I'd arrive in time, Gatekeeper?_  He sincerely hoped Heimdall was watching.

His gaze spotted the presence of a blade lodged in the archer's torso, amidst bloodied bandages. It rose and fell with every wheezing breath the archer took, no doubt radiating agony through the mortal's chest. Loki sensed that the extent of Barton's injuries did not end there, either. He looked positively wretched, one foot practically in Valhalla already. "Why, no... How are you here?" Romanova demanded, voice hushed and distressed that she couldn't quite hide, not from Loki at least. "You should be in prison. Or dead." Hushed, he figured, for her dying companion's sake. Loki tilted an eyebrow. "I was," he answered lightly. "That has never stopped me before."

Her lips pursed briefly, and Loki observed as a multitude of questions rose and then fell away in her eyes. It was clear that Romanova wanted answers, but she was not blind to the direness of the situation, to her comrade's pain. "If you've come to watch him die, you're going to be disappointed. Med evac is on their way-" she paused, swallowed. "They will not make it in time." Loki voiced in her silence. It wasn't a question. The silence that Romanova had started lengthened as the proclamation that everyone in the cubical already knew. "You know this." Of course they did. they were not idiots.

The spider exhaled through her nose, looking abruptly angry. "There's no other option available to us. He has to hold on long enough." She turned to look at the archer, taking a steadying breath. "Hear that,  _мой друг?_  You better hold on. Dying is  _not_ an option.  _Я запрещаю это."_ _  
_

Loki observed the two silently for a moment, before coming to a decision. One he would, probably, regret later.

"He would find immediate aid on Asgard."

Romanova gave a quick scoff, shooting a glance at Barton. "Yeah. Aid. We aren't stupid,  _Loki_. Doctor Foster wrote a full report on her visit to Asgard. While my idiot comrade didn't read it, I did. The Asgardians in charge-"  _Odin_ , was the unspoken emphasis, "weren't exactly pleased with her 'mortal presence'. And she had Thor to defend her." The ' _s_ _o what could you possibly do?'_  hung in the air between them, unspoken. Loki's lips curled into a smirk. The jab at the end, directed towards his apparent inadequacy, was amusing.

"Ah, but you see, Odin's opinion no longer matters. The Asgardians, the healers, they will do as  _I_  command them to." As if to punctuate his words, Loki propped Gungnir against the desk with a pointed  _thunk_. Romanova looked, briefly, as if she had swallowed a lemon. Loki could practically see the thoughts lurching about the Russian assassin's mind.  _'He's King?'_  He heard her swear in Russian with his Allspeech. "H- _how_? You're a criminal. A traitor."  _'He must have stolen the throne. No one in their right mind would let Loki, of all people, rule them.'_  
Loki's smirk seemed to stretch further. "My dear Widow, surely you are familiar with the delightful phenomenon known as  _succession_?" Her lips pursed angrily, and it was quite obvious that she had  _several_  things to say about this new piece of information. But, perhaps wisely, for Barton was not getting any better with the wait, she discarded them with a shake of her head.

"He would be healed? Fully? His..." she asked finally, her last statement trailing off. Loki nodded. "Asgard's healers are unparalleled. They may heal anything short of death. Barton's wounds would be child's play for them to fix." She was quiet for a moment, clearly frustrated with the options available to her. Risk Clint dying while they wait for Coulson, or let Loki take him away from her.  _'But he would live! It would be worth it...'_ In her worry for Barton, she became easier to read. Expression hardening angrily, she brought her fist to Loki's cheek in a sharp hook, very self-satisfied as his head twisted around. (Even if that damned ever-present smirk of his dampened some of the gratification. Smug bastard,  _why_ was he grinning, he guessed she was thinking.

"I need to contact Coulson. The man you tried to murder in cold blood, remember?" she said, a glare shooting towards him, muttering the last sentence under her breath. "This isn't my call to make," she said firmly, raising her fingers to her earpiece. Loki's eyebrows furrowed in spite of himself. That name sounded terribly familiar.

_"Move away, please."_

_Tendrils of magic, weak but serviceable, embraced the trickster with a sensation of dampness, like a heavy fog. He stepped silently away from the control panel, his consciousness suspended between the illusive duplicate and his invisible self. With a drained, maddened grin he strode quickly towards the foolishly brave agent, armed with a large weapon and a very no-nonsense expression._

_"You like this?" the man stepped forward bravely, not a trace of fear in his gaze. He could respect that. Loki's double raised its arms in a hesitant gesture of surrender, shuffling slowly away from the panel at the sorcerer's bidding. The mortal continued to speak._

_"We started working on the prototype after you sent the Destroyer." As Loki passed by him, he caught a glimpse of the name on the man's I.D. badge. 'Coulson, Phillip J. Level 7'_

_Coulson, as the man was called, gave a little half-shrug, thumb moving forward along the weapon. Loki slipped directly behind him, like a ghost. "Even I don't know what it does." The weapon activated with a shrill noise. "You want to find out?"_

_Clone vanishing, Loki allowed his magic to retreat, at the same moment he allowed the bladed tip of his spear to slide through Coulson's back._

_Oh._ That _Coulson. Should he not be in Valhalla?_ the Asgardian assassin thought. Loki was certain he had given the mortal a fatal wound, and the trickster did not typically make such grave errors like  _missing a vital organ, Norns' sakes._ "By all means." Loki gestured impassively. A glimpse of movement caught his gaze. Barton, if anything, appeared to look even worse than he did a moment ago. He had spoken very, very little. He murmured a command. "But do hurry, little spider." _  
_

**Translations:**

**(Note: Same warnings apply)**

**_мой друг_ (Russian) - my friend**


	4. The One Where Clint Notices Things and Maybe Probably Shouldn't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Natasha Romanoff sings a song and Clint Barton gets distracted (no, he's not checking out Loki's ass, he's dying, thank you very much)

Clint found in his experiences that when one was dying, one seemed to focus on the tiny, unimportant details rather than the whole picture. He'd experienced this strange phenomenon many times before. He tried to never focus on the same detail twice in all the near-death experiences he'd had. The exact shade of Natasha's hair, that crinkle she got right next to her mouth when she frowned, the exact colour of Coulson's tie, exactly how many tiles were on the ceiling, there's a cloud that looks like a puppy. He found it best not to focus on the fact that you were dying, so he looked for the tiny things, listened for them. He listen for the barking of a dog a few blocks away, the sound of Natasha's breathing, the crinkling static in his earpiece. This time the archer decided to focus his efforts on the probably-should-be-dead Asgardian assassin in front of him.

He was tall, Clint thought dimly. Had he gotten taller, or was Clint just laying on the ground? Well, he was on the ground, half under a cubicle desk, a blade lodged in his torso and no feeling in his legs. So Loki hadn't gotten taller. He was white, like really pale. He looked almost exactly as he remembered that day of Loki's 'Get-The-Hell-Off-My-Planet' party as Tony had christened it where Thor and Loki had left for Asgard. Changing his mind, Clint retracted the thought. Not exactly the same. He was in different clothes, this time a - rather nice-looking - mortal suit with the cane in his hand. He also looked... Braver, Clint said, tugging the word out of his mental dictionary. Loki Laufeyson looked brave. Strong. Like a man who knew what he was doing and the thing he was doing was good. It was a different look for Loki, Clint thought, but it wasn't bad.

"Hello, Barton." Loki's voice was smooth and British, like a stream over smoothed stones he might say if he was a port, not a manly, badass warrior. That's it, Clint dimly thought. He had found his detail to focus on to get his mind off of the radiating pain in his chest. Loki was his distraction. Or, more specifically, Loki's eyes. They had shimmered with something like pride when he had marched into the cubicle and greeted the felled archer. Pride. Bravery. They were nice emotions on the Asgardian, he thought decidedly as his weak eyes fluttered up to meet Loki's green.

They spoke, Clint knew, Loki and Tasha, but he turned his ears off. The less senses, the less pain, the longer he stayed alive. Or so he hoped. The agony was still radiating from the knife in his chest, rising and falling with each pained, wheezing, ragged breath. He still couldn't feel his legs. His head still pounded viciously. A few scattered words and phrases crossed his mind as his best friend and Loki spoke together.

"They will not make it in time" was the first clear sentence Clint heard through his dampened hearing. Since he'd made the decision, his eyes had never left Loki's, but he didn't think that Loki had noticed yet that Clint was staring, or trying to. He wanted so desperately to fall into a sleep, but he was smart. He knew that if he feel asleep now, he was likely never to wake up. He laughed, as much as he could, which was a quick, soft exhale of breath that left his nose in a puff. He hissed slightly in pain, his pale lips parting just slightly in the exclamation. He noticed Natasha's eyes flutter over to him briefly and flash with concern. "Hear that, Clint? You better hold on. Dying is not an option," she said, turning his lithe body slightly to speak to Clint. She lightly touched his shoulder, and Clint's eyes briefly watched her face. She knew. Clint knew. Loki knew. They all knew that there was a very, very good chance that this metaphorical tomb of a silent building could become a literal one. Clint didn't bullshit you, and you didn't bullshit Clint, but he appreciated the sentiment all the same. Drowsy and dying, Clint could have sworn the scattered words he heard coming out of Loki's moving lips were fake.

"He would find immediate aid on Asgard."

Loki was offering to take Clint back with him to Asgard to save his life? No, he couldn't have been. His mind spun, but still, his eyes locked onto Loki's bright green ones. No way Loki Laufeyson, the man who had killed 80 people in two days, brainwashed Agent lint Barton, who had killed Phil Coulson, who had brainwashed one of S.H.I.E.L.D's best agents, was offering to help a man he only knew through being mortal enemies oh, and, he sort of kidnapped and brainwashed him. Had he said that already? Well, he was still mad about it. His musings in his messed-up head caused him to miss completely the next part of the conversation. Well, that, and the fact that the pain in his chest had intensified. The heart of his heart was erratically thumping. Focusing, with his left hand clenched as tight as he could, on Loki's eyes, he tried to push the intensifying pain away. This was it. he was going to die, here and now, in an abandoned office building in his fourth favourite city.

Clint Barton believed that hindsight was 20-20, but then, so was his, you know, actual eyesight, but he would think later that he should have tried to focus on the conversation more than staring at Loki. In his defense, staring at Loki was probably one of the only things keeping him conscious. He would think, later on, maybe it would have been nice to know that Loki was the king. And that maybe, just maybe, Loki was staring back.

"This isn't my call to make," Clint heard Tasa saying. Coulson? Was she going to call Coulson? He hoped so. Coulson would know what to do. Coulson always knew. Then, as Natasha touched her earpiece, ( _Coulson? Coulson, come in. Widow here. We've got a problem._ ) Loki looked at him. He noticed, he was sure, that Clint had been staring. He pulled himself out of the drowsy corners of his mind to keep studying his eyes, listening halfway to Tasha's conversation. Anything to take his mind off of the awful, gut-wrenching pain.

That's when Clint almost signed his fate: death. His muscles tightened, and he felt another cough bubbling up in his throat and his heart erratically beating. Shock. He was going into shock. That was one of the signs of approaching death, and Clint looked like he was getting there quickly. His body started shaking, and he coughed, an awful, wet sound with scarlet blood bubbling up and staining his lips and his chin again. The coughs threw him into another set of spasms and he squeezed his eyes shut against the agony. Between the coughs he whimpered in pain.

Natasha immediately cut off Coulson on the other end.  _"Coulson-he's going into shock, Coulson!"_ She hadn't even had time to fill him in before Clint had started on another downward spiral. She yanked the earpiece out and tossed it at the Asgardian fervently. "Talk! I've gotta calm him down!" She was at Clint's side quickly. She grabbed each shoulder and pressed him to the ground. "I'm sorry,  _мой друг_ ," she said. "I'm sorry." She pressed him down again as he kept shaking, violent, bloody coughs racking him more. "Clint, Clint, Clint," she said, repeating his name. "It's okay, Clint. You'll be fine."

Natasha Romanov sang very sparsely, very infrequently, and never in front of others - except Clint - but now had to be an exception. If she didn't bring Clint down, he'd die right here, and no matter how much she didn't want to admit it, she needed Clint Barton.

" _Where the dreamy Volga flows  
There's a lonely Russian Rose,_ " she sang, her voice quiet in the stillness, holding Clint down while the dying man thrashed, the knife still embedded in his chest. The song she was singing was one of lint's favourites, she knew.

" _Gazing tenderly_  
Down upon her knee  
Where a baby's brown eyes glisten  
Listen."

Clint was the baby that she was desperately trying to calm, and Natasha Romanov wasn't desperate.

" _Ev'ry night you'll hear her croon  
A Russian lullaby._ "

She sang this particular tune to Clint whenever he had trouble sleeping, even if he'd never admit it.

" _Just a little plaintive tune_  
When baby starts to cry  
Rock-a-bye my baby  
Somewhere there may be."

Clint had slowly but surely started to calm down as Natasha's accented voice drew closer towards the end of the song. It was a familiar one, albeit short, that she sang to him. It reminded him of when he had nightmares and she climbed in his bed and held him and sang, calming him down. It reminded him of when Natasha was the one with the nightmares and he was singing to her. Loki had momentarily slipped from his mind, Loki who had now become brave, Loki with those beautiful green eyes. For a moment, his ears listening to the soft lullaby sung to him by Natasha on his deathbed, he sort of forgot that he was dying. For a second, he opened his eyes and flickered his eyes away from Natasha to Loki's bright green irises before shifting them back to his best friend as she finished the song and he calmed down. He coughed again, his front soaked with blood again.

" _A land that's free for you and me  
And a Russian lullaby._ "

**Translations:**

**мой друг (Russian) - my friend**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist Tasha singing to Clint.... Sorry! xD


	5. Of Ghosts and Last Chances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which phone calls are made and fates decided

Loki observed the ailing mortal without blinking as Romanova contacted the miraculously living Agent Coulson, listening silently to their stilted conversation. It always amused him to hear the odd manner in which mortal military units spoke to one another, short sentences and barked commands that gave the illusion of conserving precious time.

The mortal was staring, keen eyes glazed with pain and approaching death, Loki noticed. Staring at him. Loki returned the gaze evenly, willing Barton to hold onto the trickster's stare like a fishhook. He was slipping, shutting down as the seconds ticked by, and an abrupt cough coaxed thick blood to the surface of his lips. As his eyes slid involuntarily shut and his body shook, Romanova tossed the earpiece at Loki. He caught it reflexively.  _"Talk! I've gotta calm him down!"_

Loki gingerly raised the device to his own ear, the metal warmed by the remnants of Romanova's body heat as it pressed against his skin. Through the device, he heard the near-deafening whir of helicopter blades and the exhalations of the agent he had once attempted to murder. "Agent Coulson." Loki greeted smoothly. He wondered what the man was thinking, imagined the possible nuances of the mortal's expression as the cool, unmistakeable voice of his assaulter reached his ears. "I have a proposition for you." Long fingers idly traced the shell of the earpiece, back and forth, back and forth. Romanova was singing quietly to Barton, pinning him to the floor by his shoulders as he coughed and thrashed violently. She had a pleasant voice.

 _"Loki."_  The Agent's voice was even, if clearly displeased. He admired the man's ability to hide his shock. Loki fancied he was grimacing privately to himself.  _"Shouldn't you be dead?"_  These mortals certainly seemed disappointed with his continued existence. He supposed he could understand why. "I could very well inquire the same of yourself, but we both know that now is not the time. Don't we?"

Barton was calming, slowly, the shock receding as the song reached its conclusion. He continued to cough, but his body was not wracked with terrible tremors any longer. He was pale as a corpse.

The mortal's eyes caught Loki's once more, darting between the Asgardian and Romanova. Loki offered him a thin smile when gazed upon.  _"What do you suggest?"_  The agent offered after a moment of silence. He was clearly displeased with the idea of accepting help from Loki.  _"Medical aid is on its way."_  Loki let out a breathy laugh, more like an exhale than anything. "You are a clever man, Coulson. Do you truly believe they will arrive in time? That they will be able to heal him? Barton has a dagger embedded within his chest cavity, mortal. His blood soaks through the leather of my boots, and I sit several paces away." It was certainly a crude description, and perhaps a bit unkind for Agent Coulson and Barton were close, he imagined. But it drove the point home.

 _"Can you heal him?"_  The man's voice crackled through the device. Loki raised his fingers into Barton's vision and conjured small illusions to grasp his attention, tiny lights twining around the digits and multi-colored stars in a dancing display. It was a child's parlor trick, but he hoped it would serve to keep the archer attentive and conscious until Loki sorted things through with the archer's handler. "No. That is not my area of expertise. However," he continued, when the agent made a noise as if to interrupt, "There are several under my command who  _can_."

He had seen and experienced, both first and second hand, the miracles of healing Eir and her acolytes were able to summon forth. So long as Clint Barton is able to cling to life long enough to be transported there, he would recover in their halls. The line was silent for a moment. Loki wanted to sigh in despair. Why was him being in command so shocking? He certainly would not be here if he were still imprisoned, or executed.  _"Please, tell me you're not king of Asgard. Lie to me if you are."_

"I am not King." Loki lied easily, then continued, "If you were to give your permission, I could take Barton to Asgard where our best healers would attend him. He would be 'good as new', as you mortals say." It seemed as if an eternity passed in silence as the agent deliberated. Loki's patience stretched thin the longer it went on. " _Soon_ , Coulson—"

 _"I don't suppose you'd agree to allow an escort to tag along?"_  No doubt Coulson wanted to have both mortal eyes watching out for Barton, and a cameraman to document the trip. Loki cast his green eyes to the ceiling, the closest he would allow himself to come to rolling his eyes. "Unless you are willing to sacrifice the presence of  _two_ of your best agents by sending Romanova, then  _no._  There is not enough time. Besides," he traced the outlines of strange beasts and runes into the air with glowing fingers, "You would be unable to contact them there. So you must decide, Coulson, whether you are willing to hand over the reins of Barton's life to me for a short time, or allow him to die. If we are being entirely honest with each other, sending your agent with me guarantees a chance—however small—that he will survive the night. If you do not, then  _nothing_  will be able to save him."  _Choose, mortal. I will not make this decision for you._

 _"How quickly can you get him to Asgard?"_  Coulson asked.  _"Can your Einstein-Rosen bridge get to you while you're inside a building?"_  Loki let out a breath. So Coulson had agreed. "No, I would need to transport Barton to open space in order for it to reach us—the roof or the alleyway will serve." Or, the daring part of Loki's mind added, they could jump out a window and hope the Bifrost catches them on the way down. But he doubted that would do Barton any favors, darting in and out of shock as he was. No, they'd have to go the long route—one of the two, at least. They were a little closer to the roof of the building, but not by much.

 _"It's your call. But if you went topside you'd probably need to kick several doors down on the way, maybe dismantle a few alarms."_  Loki made a small noise of dismissal. His magic could take care of the latter, but the mortal had a point. It would likely be simpler work to descend the building, and less of a strain on... "Have you accepted my proposition, then?" The trickster's lips quirked slightly.  _Finally_.  _"I don't like it."_  Clearly; the mortal sounded highly reluctant.  _"But I don't have to like it to know that this is his only chance at survival. Slim chance, but still a chance. You have my permission to take him to Asgard."_

 _"But,"_  Coulson stressed firmly,  _"The minute he's recovered, I want him back here. The **very instant** , Loki. I don't suppose it's too much to ask that you hold back from injuring him further to prolong his.... visit?"_ Loki made a face. "Charming as you mortals may be..." Sarcasm laced his words, "Your company is not  _that_  desirable, I assure you." Thor, of course, would say differently. Not that it mattered what  _he_  thought.  _"Ditto."_  Coulson almost sounded amused.  _"I leave the rest to you, then. But Loki—"_  He had been in the process of removing the earpiece, having nothing else to say, but the agent stopped him. " _What_ , mortal?"

_"Why are you doing this?"_

Loki's lips pressed together firmly. In truth, he was not entirely certain how to answer that question. Boredom and curiosity had sent him here, and perhaps—though he'd never admit this even to himself—lingering ghosts of sentiment. Barton, though controlled by the scepter at the time, had  _been there_  for Loki during his invasion of Midgard. He'd been completely devoted to the trickster, following every order given to him without complaint or pause, and offering his help when no commands were expressed. For a time, it was almost as if Loki had become the Thor-figure in the archer's life, and Barton a younger, much more devoted Loki. He knew, of course, that it had been the scepter all along. But that didn't prevent Loki from still  _giving a damn_  about Barton, if only for that short time. For what it was worth, he'd been Loki's pillar after the hell of the Void and the Chitauri, and he supposed he appreciated that a little bit.

A tiny smidgen of leftover affection, however, did not explain why he was not simply leaving Barton to his fate now that Loki had confirmed his and Romanova's presence in Budapest. Why  _was_  he doing this?

Shaking those thoughts away, for Loki had never truly enjoyed examining his feelings too closely, he tossed the device towards Romanova without another word. The longer they idled, the less of a chance Barton had of surviving Bifrost travel, and thus the journey to Asgard. "Heimdall," he spoke to the air, knowing the Gatekeeper would hear him, "Summon Eir to the Bifrost. I want her and, hm... one other to be present when I arrive." They would not need a full entourage of healers for this. Two would serve; in the beginning, at least.

He moved towards Barton, bending down to kneel in the soaked carpet on one knee. He tried not to think to much about the blood he was kneeling in. The dagger stood out from the archer's chest triumphantly, glinting in the near darkness with a red-coated shine. Loki abruptly had to bite down on his cheek, stifling a bubble of laughter. Merely half an inch to the right, and it would have been a precise parody of Loki's own impalement on the dusts of Svartalfheim. Oh, the Norns certainly had a sense of irony, didn't they? Poor Eir, at least she would not be forced to tend to a cursed wound again with this one.

"Barton." Loki snapped his fingers, sparks lighting at the tips like fireworks with every snap. A bit theatrical, perhaps, but the trickster  _seriously_  doubted that the archer's waning attention would be hooked by anything less than bright lights and sudden noises.

"Barton," he repeated once more, "I'm going to lift you." Carefully, so as not to jar him unnecessarily, he slid his hands beneath the archer's knees and back in preparation to stand. Loki was his last chance.


	6. Loki Laufeyson, Who Art May Be Running His Ass Away From Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clint Barton debates his will (and really, maybe this isn't the time) and also complains a little (but he was just stabbed in the chest give him a break)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks for all the followers and the handful of reviews this fic has pulled up! You guys are great.

He noticed.

Perhaps that shouldn't have been the thing that Clint Barton noticed in that moment. All of his energy should have been focused on Tasha's voice, Tasha's face, the ceiling of the office building, the dagger in his chest, something. Something to keep him anchored on this side of consciousness. But what he noticed had been, in fact, Loki once again. More importantly this time around, the fact that Loki Laufeyson noticed that Clint was staring at him. And aside from that, he was  _staring back_. He swallowed his shock back. It wasn't that bad a thing, was it? That Loki had noticed him staring? It certainly didn't appear so, and if it had been, Loki understood.  
They were talking, that much he knew. Loki and... His mind was muddled. Who would Loki be talking to? Who would Natasha have been speaking to before she'd flung that little black thing at Loki? Hm... His clouded thoughts gathered together the only logical explanation. His father. They were talking to his father. Of course! Why hadn't he thought of that? Coulson was the one who made the biggest decisions concerning him and his best friend. Who else would they be talking to but Coulson? He thought briefly that before he died, he wanted to talk to his dad one last time. The man had taken very good care of him in the time that he'd been at S.H.I.E.L.D. He'd done a lot for Clint, and Clint had done a lot for him. Mostly the former, however. Well, Clint had learned to play the cello because he'd figured out that Phil Coulson liked the music. It wasn't such a far stretch as it did have a bow and involved one's hands, which he was exceptionally good at using in his line of work. He discovered that he liked it. He really, really did like playing music on his cello. She was locked away in Coulson's office back at SHIELD. He hoped Coulson would take care of her. Oh, and Betsie. Definitely Betsie. And Tasha. She'd be worried without Clint, wouldn't she? Worried about him, more like it. He'd have to look after Tasha when he was gone, too.

He didn't want Natasha to be alone.

Natasha touched his hand after she finished the song and Clint was mostly calm. As she gave it a gentle squeeze, she spoke softly. "холодный _,_ " she murmured in Russian. He realized how pale he was in that moment, his hand tight in one of hers. He was as pale as a corpse. He looked dead. He was as good as dead now. It was then that his eyes were attracted to the dark red stain on the carpet. It was coming from his, the scarlet blood leaking from the knife embedded in his chest. The blood flow would have been so much worse if Natasha had pulled the dagger out after he'd been struck. Strangely enough, the thing that was quite possibly ending his life was also one of the thin threads keeping him there. If the dagger was removed, he'd certainly die. His eyes briefly followed the dark red stain inching across the carpet towards Loki. It reached his shoes, staining them. He swallowed, another cough causing thick red blood to bubble up to the surface and emerge from his blood-red stained lips.

His gaze was caught by a glimmer of lights above him. Loki had moved his fingers into Clint's line of sight, and glitter was bouncing off of them and weaving in between the fingers, multi-coloured stars and sparks joining them in a childish display. But they had served their purpose, and that was to gain Clint Barton's fluttering and wavering attention span. Most of the stars were purple, Clint dimly noted. His favourite colour. The colour of his suit. The colour of his uniform. The colour of the night sky when it's dark, black but not exactly black, stars twinkling and dancing through the deep purple, almost black. The colour of Betsie's accents. The colour of his hair when he'd lost a bet once. The colour that hid so many shades under the brief guise of 'purple'. Clint's favourite colour.

The light emitting from Loki's fingertips caught his eyes again. This time it wasn't sparks and stars, but letters, shapes. Words. He didn't quite understand many of them, but he did pick up on one. It was a bird. A hawk in his favourite colour, his favourite shade of purple. The hawk flew in place, its wings beating in time with Clint's fluttering, weak heartbeat. The glowing bird spun up, creating almost a loop-da-loop in the air in front of the Asgardian and Clint. Eyes glazed over slightly with pain, he tried to focus on the almost theatrical trick. He didn't even notice when Natasha gently released his hand and placed in on the ground next to him, on what happened to be a splotch of blood. Her fingers found his wrist and while he was occupied with the glowing bird, she took his pulse. It was weak, the blood pumping past her nimble fingers. He was dying. Her best friend, her rock, the person that kept her sane, was bleeding away right in front of her. Bleeding away with the inability to use his legs. She swallowed, glancing up at Loki. She'd been listening to the conversation. He'd agreed. She almost let out a sigh of relief. He'd be taken away from her, but if he made the trip, he would live. She wasn't exactly sure what she'd do without him.

Natasha could practically hear the question Coulson sent at the Asgardian.  _Why are you doing this?_  She wondered that, too. Why was he doing this? Why was he taking all of this - most likely - time and energy to save the life of one petty, tiny, useless mortal? "Why are you doing this, Loki?" she softly murmured. Clint heard her soft voice near his ear. Where was he going? What was Loki doing? Oh, yeah... The Asgardian was probably taking him back to his home. Maybe they could fix him. Maybe this building wouldn't become his tomb. But why was Loki doing this? It was a plaguing question, one that Clint thought of for a few moments. Maybe he felt something towards Clint Francis Barton. After all, they had been close for a while what seemed like forever ago. Even though the affection was artificial in the moment, maybe some of it had lingered behind when Clint's head had been smashed against the floor of that metal catwalk. He didn't speak of it, hadn't ever mentioned it, but some had for him, too.

Barney hadn't been much for Clint growing up in the circus. Hadn't been anything at all, if he remembered correctly. When Loki's scepter had touched his heart, he suddenly had someone else. Before that, he'd had very few people he cared about. He had Natasha, of course, and he had Phil Coulson. They cared about him deeply, and he cared for them back, but with Loki, it was different. It wasn't like the platonic, deep-rooted affection that he had for Natasha that nothing could tear away. It wasn't the glowing, survive-it-all affection that he had for Coulson, like a son would have for his father. It wasn't anything like what he'd had with Barney where there was no affection between either of them. But with Loki, he had a new type of affection. A new type of love. Early after he'd been brain-washed, the affection had been budding, slim, and something resembling what he had with Natasha, a sibling-like bond. He had someone else to love, someone else to add to the shrinking list of people he cared about. He had someone to protect. He obeyed every order Loki gave him without question, and he had never complained. After a short time, the sibling-like affection had evolved. He remembered, just barely, as if he'd been listening to the memory from a badly tuned radio and watching it from a staticy television set. It was like he hadn't even been there, merely an observer of the scene. But he remembered, very vaguely, a time when they'd kissed.

Clint's eyes fluttered shut again, but a sharp snap from Loki pulled them open. again. "Barton." Purple and gold fireworks burst from his fingertips at the snap. The exploding stars and glimmers of light attracted his gaze like the trickster had intended.

"Barton, I'm going to lift you." He was holding him then, an arm under his knees and an arm behind his back. The contact felt familiar and comforting, but he felt as if he should shy away from it. But he was to weak to bother with it, instead slumping into the trickster's arms. "M'kay," he murmured, his voice soft and weak, like a leaf on the breeze, and his eyes once again focused on Loki's. Although Loki moved slowly, it was sudden to Clint. He stood up, and although he could tell that Loki was trying his hardest not to jar him, he winced and let a soft noise of pain and a bubbling cough slip from his lips.

Natasha's voice cut through his stupor. "It's alright, Clint. He's going to take you to Asgard. Fix you, okay? You're going to be fine." She glanced up at Loki, crossing the cubicle to head for the door. "Hurt him and I'll make sure you regret it."

Clint coughed again, the cough wet, but this time, only a few drops of blood accompanied it and there were no shaking spasms. He was still flirting with shock, but he was managing to stay conscious. He stored away he last bit of residual strength and let go. He slumped into Loki's arms, warm and familiar. Comforting. "Loki," he murmured again. The pain in his chest increased as Loki took a few steps, the wound being jarred with movement. Even more scarlet blood leaked out of his chest. He couldn't afford to lose much more or he wouldn't survive the trip to Asgard.

"Loki." His dull gaze was still dull, the bright colour of his eyes almost faded, and he could barely speak, but he slurred the words together. Pain and staring death in the face made people act a little different, and while Clint never complained about his injuries - well, most of the time - he did now. He couldn't tell you why he told Loki his ails, but he did. Something about being in the trickster's arms with that odd lingering affection tickling at him made him talk.

"Hurts, Loki."

The way he said Loki's name, it was almost a prayer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> холодный (Russian) - cold


	7. When the King Stand Tall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Loki actually cares (he's doing that a lot), Clint Barton sees a lot of colours, and Eir is not amused

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is formatted a bit different, with the POV of both of our boys and a special guest star! Cookies to those who get all of the Norse mythology references...

Barton's voice was hardly a whisper, frail and nearly inaudible. Loki lifted him out from beneath the cubicle and into his arms with as much care as he could offer, even so knowing that he could not entirely spare the archer the pain of movement. At this point, Loki doubted that Barton could even take a breath without jarring the blade in his chest. He was light, too. Lighter than he should have been, Loki imagined. Like a bird.

 _Barton, much as he pretends otherwise, is not an actual hawk... But,_  Loki mused before the rational part of his brain could object,  _He_ would  _look handsome in a feathered cloak._  Something gaudy and not at all inconspicuous. Perhaps the archer would find himself in possession of one—delivered anonymously, of course—as a recovery present. The mortals did that sort of thing for each other when ill or otherwise injured, didn't they?

Before that train of thought could go further, he pushed it away and stored it for later. Now was, regrettably, not the time. None of it would matter, if he could not get Barton to Asgard alive in the first place.

Romanova had one hand hovering slightly above her partner's leg, wishing to give comfort but held back by the thought of causing him more pain. A moment more and she drew her hand away, verbally reassuring Barton instead. Loki's lips twitched when she tacked on a threat at the end, directed towards himself. Good. For a moment, he had worried that the looming threat of Barton's demise had turned her soft. Thank goodness for small miracles.

With minor reluctance, he left Gungnir behind. He would not be able to carry it (possibly save for between his teeth, but that was probably unhygienic), not with a dying man in his arms. Someone could be sent for it later, if need be. Loki was content to allow Romanova to lead the way, his pace quick but steps gentle.

Barton was coughing, slumped in the arms of his once-ally-now-enemy while Loki's name passed his lips in a mantra—or perhaps a prayer.  _"Hurts, Loki."_  The admission seemed to twist something deep in the trickster's chest. Uncomfortably. Barton  _never_  complained, and certainly not to Loki of all people. He tried not to think about that too deeply. "I know, my hawk," Loki said softly. One way or another, Barton's suffering would come to an end soon. Loki only hoped his end would be the more positive one.

They took the steps two at a time, Romanova glancing back every few seconds out of concern for her partner. Little doubt lingered in her eyes now, as far as Loki could tell. She'd taken her internal leap of faith and pushed aside her animosity towards the trickster, for the moment. Loki counted it as a blessing if a temporary one.  
It was strange to think that he'd once reveled in her hatred towards him, once upon a time. It had fed his righteous fury at the world, along with the rest of the ire he'd been faced with. It had felt right, at the time. To be the target of so many angry people and their ire. Looking back, Loki hardly recognized the person he'd been. It was like looking into a distorted mirror for too long. It was only a pity that it took so much death and pain for Loki to finally figure that out.  _If I do not make haste, then Clint Barton will be added to that list._

Romanova pulled the ground floor door open so forcefully the handle dented the wall, and Loki stepped into the alleyway without pause. "Keep him safe. You heal him and bring him back, you hear me? And if he—if he doesn't..." She couldn't seem to say it aloud, but her eyes expressed the intent of her words clearly. "If he does not recover, I shall endeavor to bring back the body," he assured. Loki had no use for dead bodies after their owners had gone on to the afterlife (well, except for that one time) and he would have even less use for Barton's. "I shall be in touch, agent Romanova." He hesitated, wondering if he was possible damning himself with his next words. "... Please, do not tell Thor I was here."

Natasha nodded shortly, gaze fastened firmly to Clint as she memorized the life in his face—as if this would be the last time she'd see him alive. Perhaps it would be. He wondered if she would shed tears when they left. The thought made him feel strangely guilty, even if Barton's state was not the trickster's fault. Looking to the dark sky, Loki held the mortal tighter to his body, willing Barton to find the strength to survive the trip.

"Heimdall," he whispered, and the sky roared and enveloped them both.

* * *

 

Clint decided that today had been a very, very shitty day. Sure, it had started out alright, with Budapest and his best friend - in the whole wide world ever, if he had been 8 - and the beautiful prospect of nailing terrorists, but the knife in his chest served as a constant reminder of how downhill his perfect day had gone and exactly how quickly. With every passing moment, terrifying it seemed, more blood leched out of the wound in his chest and bubbled silently (maybe not entirely silently, maybe there was a slight gurgle that told to the trained ears of the three that Clint was choking on his own blood, but they all attempted to ignore it, because that was a thought none of them wanted to have, but all of them were having, the archer, the queen of spiders, and the Asgardian king) from his lips with every rasping cough.

He almost felt remorse for staining Loki's suit with his blood. He dimly thought that he'd somehow have to find a replacement for him, wherever they were going - Asgard, wasn't it? His home. They were going to Loki's home, not Clint's. He was a villain and they'd clashed many times in the past, but he also thought - one he kept close - that maybe Loki did have an ass, and the suit - although he hadn't seen much here, he'd seen Loki in a suit back at New York, and even though he'd solemnly sworn never to bring it up again, it was a really fine one. Natasha would kill him if he told her. So, wisely, the subject of an Asgardian assassin-turned-king's ass was never brought up. Ever. And Clint would swear upon possibly even the life of his mother - who was deceased if you knew him, so he wasn't swearing on much - that he'd never even come close to the thought.

The bird dimly wondered, nestled in Loki's arms, why they couldn't simply have stayed there, in the cubicle. Why couldn't the Bifrost have come to fetch them there? That would make more sense, as what effect would movement have on him if he couldn't breathe without jarring the knife in his stomach? But Loki had picked him up, and Natasha was going with it, so clearly there was some substance to it. He recalled, from reading Jane Foster's report and putting some things together himself, that the Einstein-Rosen Bridge only worked  _outside_. Oh. That would make sense, as his every breath and Loki's every jolting step jarred the knife embedded in his stomach, causing new ripples of agony to zip up and down his body, setting his working nerves alight before the last had stopped, sending a soft whimper of pain from his lips.

When he was young, Clinton Francis Barton had made himself a promise. More of a vow, really. Once, Barney had abused him, beating him up, and he'd made the mistake of showing weakness and gasping in pain when a kick landed to his ribs. It was weakness, that gasp of pain, earning him more than just that kick. So since that day, little 8-year-old Clint promised himself that he would never admit to pain. He would never admit to defeat. And since then, Clint could count on the fingers of one hand the amount of time he'd broken that promise that young Clint had made, this time included. He wanted what could be his last act to be upholding his promise to himself, but he wasn't sure if it was possible. He tried, desperately, to swallow the noises, but he couldn't. The agony rippling across his body was enough to send anyone alight with screams, so he was doing better than most. He swallowed, the metallic tang of blood slipping down his throat and immediately coming back up as he coughed.  _You promised,_  he thought, his thoughts definitely scattered.

He was sure he was dripping blood behind them.

The stairs were the worst, no matter how much that Loki tried lessen Clint's burden. unknowingly trying to help him keep his promise. Taking them two at a time, which Loki did, gliding down them gracefully, almost helped Clint's pain, however. The jolting steps were farther between, giving him the briefest reprieve if he held his breath for seconds. When finally, the horror of the tomb-like office building was behind them as the night air hit Clint. He let his eyes flutter shut. every blink on the way down had been a battle, trying to open them again, a battle he'd almost lost, won only in part thanks to the thumping heart next to him, tugging his eyes back open. He drew in a long, shaking breath, pulling in Budapest's night air. It was clean and fresh, and he filled his lungs with it before half fled through his lips in a cough of pain.

It was Natasha's voice that pulled him back into the light. "Open your eyes, Clint." When he opened his eyes to meet hers, hovering just beside Loki Laufeyson, they were half-glazed with pain and almost unfocused. "There. There's my Clint." She leaned forward, almost hesitant, and pressed a kiss to his forehead, running fingers through his hair. She looked almost... sad as she pulled away, lingering by his side. "Be careful, my friend." Clint tried to speak, opened his lips to talk, but Natasha silenced him by wiping the blood from his lips. "Be careful, my friend," she repeated once more.

The next and last thing Clint knew was the Bifrost travel. Loki had pulled him tighter to his chest, Clint's blood already sticky on Asgard's king, but the contact was almost nice, Loki's warmth, touching Clint. The breath he held in his lungs whooshed out. In his terribly weakened condition, if he had anything in his stomach, he would have lost it. Everything was light and colour and Loki's warmth. He curled forward, almost like an injured child carried by his parent, his eyes squeezed shut. As they touched down on Asgard, the colours around him exploded, and Clint Barton was lost again.

* * *

 

Eir was not, that day, expecting a call. It wasn't the Asgardian healer's day off, per say, but she just simply wasn't expecting to be called upon by the king himself today. Normally, King Loki didn't require healers as he never was much injured, except of course, the time that Eir had tended to him after the events of Svartalfheim. That had been one of the only times since his adulthood began that Eir recalled having to tend to him. When he was a child, sure, she had healed his bruises, scrapes, broken arms, and the occasional wounds from bilge snipe hunts and such, but nothing ever as serious as that. So when she felt Heimdall's eyes on her, she figured it must be important, as Loki never need her, so she immediately stood up straighter.

 _Our king has need of you, Lady Eir,_  Heimdall's deep voice whispered in the healer's head, like petals on a breeze.  _King Loki requests of you to bring one other with you to the Bifrost, immediately. His need is dire._  Eir frowned. A dire need? Had the king perhaps gotten himself stabbed again? That would be unfortunate, and she'd had enough with that first cursed wound of his. But if he was summoning her directly, saying that his need wasn't casual, but _dire_ , clearly it was very important.  _I shall be there,_  she replied. She turned around from where she'd been searching for something (now unimportant) and called out. "Sigyn?"

The younger healer appeared around a corner into the empty infirmary. "Yes, Lady Eir?" Eir nodded, crossing the room to meet out with the blonde Asgardian. " Our king has need of us. We are to head to the Bifrost immediately. The need is dire, so Heimdall said." Sigyn nodded immediately. "Yes, Lady Eir. Shall we take horses?" Eir thought only for a mere moment as the two women left the room. "Yes, I suppose we shall. We will arrive faster. We will each take a horse, Arvak and Alsvinn, and bring Sleipnir if we should need an aid on the return trip for the king."

Simple minutes later, each healer was perched atop a horse, Sleipnir obediently galloping beside them. Unknowledgable about what she would need, Eir had simply snatched the basics as they left the infirmary, the box under her left arm, her right occupied, the fingers wrapped in Arvak's mane as hooves pounded through the city. Curiosity was raised by the citizens who spotted the two healers galloping full speed on powerful steeds throughout the city, continuing towards the rainbow bridge. Hooves pounded on across the multi-coloured bridge, whispers following them like a summer breeze.

Eir and Sigyn arrived just before the king did, she deduced, as only Heimdall was present when the horses finally slowed, having galloped the way. "You came quickly, my lady," Heimdall said with a slight bow to the healer. Eir offered him a courteous nod. bracing one hand on the stallion's neck, Eir swung off, landing firmly on the ground, Sigyn doing the same. "Your request was an important one," she replied, "Heimdall." He paused for a moment before speaking again. "Our king and his companion are returning." Heimdall lifted the gold staff in his hand a few inches before hitting the ground with it once, letting the tip rest there. Companion? Eir's lips twitched downward for the briefest moment. Then, she saw it. The light burst forth from the Bifrost, bright and almost warm. The three already there waiting watched as the light faded away and their king was revealed. He was dressed in a Midgardian suit, as Eir knew it to be called and did not appear to be injured, but that wasn't the peculiar part. He was clutching someone in his arms. A Midgardian, clearly. The Midgardian was the one in dire need of her help. He was unconscious and limp in the king's arms, curled up almost like a child, a knife buried in his chest.

As she moved forward for clearly this mortal was not in good health, she thought to herself.

_Oh, Loki. What have you done?_


End file.
